The End of the Line
by Minxy
Summary: Spike and Dawn coping (or not coping) with their new roles in each other's lives (post Season 5).


The End of the Line

The End of the Line

by

Minx Trinket

Rating: R (mostly, but not entirely, for Spike's language)

Spoilers: If you haven't seen "The Gift" and just about everything before it, don't read this. Specific references are only to Season 5.

Disclaimer Haiku: _Beloved puppets / We dance for fun, no profit / Joss Whedon is God_

Summary and warningy stuff: I'm not quite sure where this came from. Probably insomnia and a minor (okay, major) Spike obsession.This is a sort of Season 6 opener, taking place 39 days after "The Gift." (Yes, 39. Yes, there's a reason. No, I won't tell you. You'll have to figure it out.) You-Know-Who has gone kaput and Spike is trying his best to take her place. But grief and too much togetherness force uncomfortable feelings to the surface for Spike and Dawn both. 

This is not the first fic I've ever written, but it's the first (that I know of!) to be read outside a small circle of friends. Be gentle with me.

When Dawn woke from the dream again, she knew that her sister was dead. She was grateful, at least, that this time the dream had ended the way things _really_ happened, that it wasn't the version with the parachute or with Spike and Giles catching Buffy at the bottom, because when she had those dreams she would wake up thinking her sister was alive and then be hit with the cold truth all over again. 

She looked at the clock. It was 5:30, which meant the sun was about to rise and her babysitter was about to fall asleep. Hoping he hadn't passed out just yet, Dawn slid out of bed and padded quietly down the hall in her bare feet.

Halfway down the stairs she could see him sprawled face down across the pulled-out couch. He didn't snore (_of course_ he didn't snore), and when he lay like that, so still and silent, a tiny fear would clutch at her heart, telling her that he had left her too. But she got hold of herself quickly, shaking the fear away, reminding herself that if he were dead he would be dust already. Spike was as undead as ever.

She tiptoed down into the living room and over to the edge of the couch. _So still, quiet, cold_ she thought, but banished that thought and grabbed a corner of the flowered, beige sheets that covered him.

"Spike?" she whispered. He didn't move. Slowly, gently, she crawled onto the mattress, cringing at the sound of each disused spring's creak. She lay down next to him, as close as she dared, and reached out, gingerly, to touch his shoulder. He snorted, making her jump, and shifted his head a little, then was still again. When she could breathe once more she slid her hand down to the small of his back and rested her cheek on his shoulder. He was so cold, but so solid and so _real_. She closed her eves. Even his stony closeness was a comfort, a reassurance that she was not alone. She began to drift back into dreaming.

Spike moved.

Suddenly, Dawn's heart was in her throat as the vampire turned toward her and threw an arm across her shoulders, yanking her roughly up against him. She cringed, expecting a fang in her neck. Then nothing. Spike settled again with a sigh and was still. Dawn's heart was back in her chest, but it pounded like a hammer against her ribs. _He'd never hurt me_, she reminded herself. _He couldn't hurt me, but he'd never even try._

__She assessed her new position. They were facing each other now, his chin butted up against her forehead. One of her hands was still on his back, the other now pressed to his chest as if to push him away, and her head rested not entirely comfortably on his hard, lean bicep. _What if--- _she thought, and then tried to stop it dead before it could finish, but it was too late. _What if I just slid this hand up and put my arms around him?_

It was crazy. It was like one of those cheap, smutty novels her mom used to read at the beach. In those books the hero was always muscular and had dramatic cheekbones and a dark past, and there was always damsel in distress who was younger, innocent, falling helplessly into his arms. Dawn had always thought it was a load of See Are Ay Pee, but here she was and here he was, with the past and the cheekbones, and everything was exactly like one of those books.

_Except I'm sick of being helpless_, she thought.

Dawn slid her hand across his chest, surprised to find that, in touching him, she felt like she was being touched, sympathetic thrills racing though her in tandem with the movement.

Spike moaned a little, like a purring tiger. The hand on her back pulled tighter, and he pressed one of his legs between hers. She opened her knees and let his thigh slide against her own, then she felt something else. _Is that--Oh God, is that his--?_ Spike kissed her forehead, so lightly she wasn't sure at first that he'd done it at all. The hand on her back slid inside her camisole and cooly up her spine, and his other hand wound its fingers into the hair at the nape of her neck, forcing her head to tilt back and her face to point toward his. Dawn wondered at how _good_ that roughness felt.

Spike's lips were trailing softly over her face, kissing her eyelashes, winding their inevitable way toward her mouth. His lips brushed hers, tauntingly, and she breathed, "_Spike._" Smiling, the vampire opened one sleepy eye and looked at her.

Both his eyes shot open.

"_Bloody, buggering, bleeding, jeez--_" he swore loudly, arms windmilling as he shot to the other side of the bed. "_Whatthefuckdyathinkyerdoing?!_"

Dawn sat up. "_I_ wasn't doing anything. _You_ were the one doing."

"Fucking well was not!" he shouted, clutching the sheets to himself in an attempt to cover what Dawn was now certain was nothing but Spike underneath. "What're you bloody doing crawling into me bed?!"

"I--" she stuttered, "I was h-having the dreams again."

Spike's wild-eyed horror softened suddenly. "Aw, Li'l Bit…."

"Even when I'm asleep I'm all alone," she said bitterly. "I didn't _want _to be alone."

Spike sighed and pushed a hand through his hair. "Alright, but you shouldn't be sneaking into someone's bed like that. 'Least not 'til university. You should've woken me up."

"I thought-- I just wanted you to hold me."

Spike covered his eyes. "Christ on a crumpet, Dawn, d'you have _any_ idea---"

"You were dreaming it was Her, weren't you? You thought I was Buffy."

Spike looked up at her slowly, and she knew that it was true. The jealously was like a stone in her throat. "I know," she hissed, "that I'll never be her. I'll never be as strong, or as brave, or as beautiful as--"

"Dawn, stop it," Spike said.

"--as she was, but she's _gone_ Spike, she's _dead_--"

"_STOP IT_!" He hollered, and Dawn shut her mouth with an audible snap. "Shut up and listen for a bloody second."

Slowly, as if she were a wild animal, he reached one hand out toward her. "Take it," he said, and she complied. "Do you feel that, feel me shaking? _You _did that, Nibblet. Your skin, your…body, your touch. Not your sister and not some dream. _You_. No, you're not Buffy, but Buffy wasn't you either. Don't ever think, _for a second_, that you are anything less than what she was."

"But you don't--"

"Just _listen_ to me." Spike's still-trembling hand squeezed hers. He swayed a little, his lips parting and closing a few times before he could force the words out. "I _love _you, Dawn, as much as I've ever loved any human. I didn't let the Hellbitch cut me up or climb that fucking tower just because of Buffy, and I'm not here now because of her. I'm here because of _you_, to take care of _you_. And that's why I won't, I _can't_ let this happen between us. I don't want to cross that line, not now, when it's the wrong time and for all the wrong reasons. Can you understand that?"

"You think I'm too young."

He sighed, "That's part of it, yeah, but--"

"You think I should meet boys my own age. Well, gee, Spike? Do you know any cute guys who are just slightly younger than the universe? Met any nice energy blobs lately? There's nobody my age, there's nobody like me, and there's nobody who _gets _that, Spike, except you. _Nobody understands me like you do_. Nobody. And I don't think anyone else knows _you _like _I_ do. The new you. The real you."

"You seem," Spike said, through gritted teeth, "to keep forgetting that the real me is a demon."

"Oh, right, the no soul thing. Lemmie tell you, Spike, I could name about a zillion guys with souls who will never be as good a man as you."

They stared at each other, silently. Dawn lifted her quivering chin in defiance. The tears pooled at the corners of her eyes. Spike swallowed hard, forcing himself not to sweep her up, to savagely kiss every tear from her face, from her life, to keep from pouring his sorrow into her. He was aching to hold her, she was aching to be held, but he knew that it was still about Buffy, for both of them. He pulled his hand away.

"Go put some clothes on," he said, turning his back to her. "I'll make you some breakfast." There was a pause, and then with a creak of bedsprings Dawn laid a tiny, warm hand on his back. "_Go!_" he said harshly, and the hand withdrew. The mattress shifted, and he heard Dawn's footsteps as she headed for the stairs.

_It can't go on like this_, he thought._ Night after night, nothing in this world but each other to cling to. It's not right. She needs more than me._ _After she goes to school I'll call Red's girlfriend. Maybe she'd understand. At least she won't drive a stake through me before I can explain. And she can talk Red into staying here for a while. They can give Dawn some company and keep her away from me, keep me away from her…_

He waited, still listening. Up the steps, one, two, three, she went, then--

"Spike," she said softly.

"What?"

"You said 'not now.' That's not the same thing as saying 'never.'"

Spike squeezed his eyes shut, grasping at the invisible line, feeling it slip from his hands, trailing into nothingness. "Go get dressed," he repeated, gathering the sheet around his waist, and he stormed from the room.


End file.
